


Endnote 1

by Ascended_Sleepers



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: F/F, First Council days, M/M, Original Character(s), Sketches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 12:59:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11875011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ascended_Sleepers/pseuds/Ascended_Sleepers
Summary: A collection of companion drabbles to my main ficThe Fountain of Forgetfulness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On the accidental misuse of a fortify charisma potion.

**The Potion.**

“The potion is ready, my lord.”

Voryn tears his gaze away from the alchemical table upon which a few retorts with boiling fluids stand fuming and, wiping the sweat off his forehead, hands Nerevar a small vial filled to the brim with a bright-green liquid. Nerevar twiddles the vial about his fingers, uncorks it and smells the contents. Voryn warns him that it’s acerbic owing to the famous bitterness of stoneflower petals and the slightly sour taste of kresh fiber, but the smell is pleasant and Nerevar is grateful to him for that.   

They spent the last five days in Balmora, arranging a beneficial marriage between the scions of a wealthy family of a petty Councilor from House Redoran and an impoverished but ancient and prestigious family from House Dagoth. The negotiations stalled when both parties wouldn’t agree on the dowry and Nerevar’s patience was wearing thin. He didn’t like Balmora with its provincial architecture and air permeated with the odious stench of swamp and sights which plunged him into gloom. It seemed to him for a while that nothing short of a miracle would break the deadlock until Voryn – his clever, cunning Voryn – came up with a simple solution which now lies upon his palm, shimmering. It is a potion that will make him appear vastly more charming and attractive in the eyes of quarreling nobles, but the dazzle is short-lived and the remedy is poisonous. If used unsparingly and without caution, it can cripple his ability to cast even the most facile of spells.

Nerevar looks at his reflection in the mirror, arrayed in noble dark-blue and purple colors, and satisfied with the alluring contrast between the gold of his skin and the elegant sobriety of his attire, tightened to the utmost around his waist, drinks the contents of the vial. The notorious tales of conceited Telvanni wizards falling in love with their own reflections unnerve him and he averts his eyes from the mirror. Voryn doesn’t so much as glance at him, standing with his back strained and upright, and his voice is low and soft when he speaks as if he can barely contain his curiosity.

“Don’t you want to see the fruits of your hard work?” Nerevar asks.

“No, I won’t look. I mixed the ingredients in precise proportions, so I’m certain of my success. But to me you’re dazzling without any frills and embellishments. If only they saw half of what I see in you!”

“Enough of this, old friend,” he mutters, embarrassed by the utter sincerity of Voryn’s words, and leaves the room through the heavy door.

Outside his chamber stretches a long dimply-lit hallway which ends in another heavy door from dark wood guarded by a pair of Redoran retainers. They fall victim to Voryn’s sorcery and looking at their faces wreathed in blissful smiles, into their hollow eyes, Nerevar is assured that his old friend didn’t oversell his mastery of alchemical craft. They wordlessly open the door for him, awaiting his orders with great attention, as one would await a blessing from one of the Three Princes. Inside he is met with the same awestruck gazes, languishing sighs from men and women alike, giggling which resembles hysterical laughter, pitiful grimaces with which they try to hide their rapturous smiles or confused, passionate pleas and declarations of undying loyalty. Nerevar calls for silence.

“Today I ask of you but one thing: put aside your differences and conclude the negotiations in a peaceful manner to the benefit of us all.”

“But, sera,” objects an old Redoran Councilor, with a deep frown upon his brow, “I can’t accept these conditions as they aren’t to my advantage. These rascals demand a piece of fertile land with the hand of my daughter, but they can’t offer anything but their son. He’s a good lad, but he has nothing to his name.”

“Dagoth is a proud, ancient name, serjo.”

“Ancient names don’t feed children.”

“No, but a good name will pave a way to a better standing. While the land feeds them, a good name will increase their riches.”

No argument of such kind can convince an old miser, but when Nerevar looks at him intently, the Councilor’s face is distorted by convulsions which betray an inner struggle and he flashes an ingratiating smile at the Hortator, losing the will to resist his unnatural charm.  

“Please, I need your seal here.”

The magic wears off sooner than Voryn predicted, but the Hortator convinces them to reach a compromise. Slowly, they return to their senses, shedding their lifeless smiles, and stare at each other in perplexity, not fully understanding yet that they needn’t quarrel any longer. The Hortator leaves them to gossip amongst each other and returns to his chambers to prepare for the departure from Balmora. To his surprise, Voryn waits for him by the door, pacing up and down the hallway with impatient steps and when he sees him, he changes countenance.  His expression is pitiful and imploring and he clasps Nerevar’s hand to his chest.

“What’s with you, Voryn?” Nerevar asks.  

 Voryn’s speech is incoherent and his manners are erratic, though he’s never been excitable. “I looked, my lord… I forgot myself and all prudence. What a fool I am! My own magic… And I looked again because I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Your radiant face like the sun in zenith-”

“Voryn, calm down, I beg you!”

“-and your eyes like the enigma of the deepest sea excite me beyond word.”

 “Look at me! It was a mirage,” Nerevar shakes him by the shoulders. “The accursed spell surely-”

Voryn doesn’t let him finish speaking; his lips capture Nerevar’s lips in a rough kiss, he is wild, impatient and ready to make love to him in a hallway against the wall as if it’s the most comfortable of beds. Nerevar doesn’t recognize the earnest, self-possessed Voryn he knows outside of his bedchambers or the passionate, impulsive Voryn he has the pleasure of knowing when they make love. There’s a difference between fervent desire and dimness of the mind and Voryn with swollen lips, with a vacant stare, fumbling about with the buttons of his blouse, is a man who has lost all sense of self. He’s aroused before Nerevar’s hands touch him and it doesn't sit well with the Hortator to take advantage of his lover when he's in such a pitiful state of mind. Alas, the image Voryn sees in front of him and finds irresistibly attractive is a mirage. Nerevar wishes he knew a spell that can bring Voryn to his senses or put him to sleep, but his command of magic is quite poor. To his luck, he is stronger than his hapless lover. Nerevar gently pushes Voryn aside and presses an ice-cold palm to his sweaty forehead. Voryn flinches and rubs his eyes like a man who suddenly awakes from a disturbing dream.

“Nerevar, I-”

“You looked at me, I know.” Nerevar heaves a sigh.

“Kiss me… and I’ll be fine.”

They don’t confine themselves to kissing, but at least they’re on a bed and not in a mansion’s hallway where anyone can walk in on them at any moment. Voryn comes to reason and caresses him with reserve – not too much reserve to make it a dull affair, not too little of it to give him an impression that he can’t grasp what he’s doing.  But as soon as Nerevar slides his legs apart and teases him with insistent strokes, a shudder passes over him and he clutches at the sheets and comes wholly undone in his hand. Nerevar awkwardly seats himself on the edge of the bed, his toes touching the cold floor. His hand is warm and sticky and he isn’t sure what to do with himself, fearing that he may hurt Voryn in some way. Voryn lies motionless for a few moments, his hair scattered about the pillow, but then he sits up, looking positively mortified.

“Forgive me,” he whispers hastily, “I didn’t want to… I didn’t think I’d be so excited and unable to please you.”

Nerevar wants to laugh, but it’ll only make everything worse. “It happens to everyone, so don’t mind it.”

“You don’t want to say that you, too-”

Nerevar can’t restrain himself any longer; he throws back his head and laughs. “Of course, it happened to me. Only imagine my shame! It’s an unwritten rule that the king of Resdayn is a man of unmatched endurance and virility. But the worst offense I’ve caused… Ah! I fell asleep during foreplay. My lover then – who was it? – was terrified that it was his dull lovemaking that bored me to the death.”

“Was it?”

“I’m sure I was awfully tired. He didn’t show his face in court for an entire week after that. And don’t tell me it was your first failure in bed.”

“You’re right, it wasn’t,” mutters Voryn, hiding his face in his delicate palms.

“Then why are you embarrassed?”

“I don’t know… You’re right, of course, I shouldn’t fuss… But if I may please you in any other way, please, tell me.”

Nerevar touches Voryn’s lips – full, sensual, irresistible – with his thumb and desire awakens in him again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dagoth Ur writes his letter, Nerevar writes him back. 
> 
> Inspired by [this post](http://mistressdratha.tumblr.com/post/167813577708/mistressdratha-mistressdratha-real-voryn) by mistressdratha on tumblr and [this amazing poem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12439215/chapters/29229108) by Aldariel (tintael on tumblr).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit AU-ish, just me playing with some concepts as I'm dealing with an influx of Dagoth Ur feels (when do I not have Dagoth Ur feels though xD). Not exactly how it's going to go down in TFOF.

**The Awakening.**

 

“He answered you, my lord,” said the ash priest, lifting his arms in the air.

Dagoth Ur stood in contemplation by the half-finished frame of Akulakhan which was illumined now and again by the crimson gleams of the restless volcano. At his feet began a narrow, unsteady bridge spanning across the fiery pit and ending in the gaping maw of the brass giant as tall as its creator. His great endeavor towered above him, its hollow chest and skeletal hips exposed to the harsh temper of the Red Mountain.

The whole Heart Chamber echoed with the priest’s ringing voice. ‘ _He answered you_ ,’ hissed the raging fire below Dagoth Ur’s feet. ‘ _He answered you_ ’, howled the storm pregnant with ash. Something stirred in Dagoth Ur’s soul - a half-forgotten sentiment, a sweet, intoxicating anguish.

“What did he say?”

“My lord, I do not stand high in your grace-”

“Give me the letter,” said Dagoth Ur in an ingratiating voice. “What does _he_ want?”

It would be a bitter, cruel jest if his former lord came to destroy him and his bold beginnings, but Dagoth Ur had foreseen such an unfavorable outcome. Therefore, Dagoth Ur wrote to him:

> _‘Lord Nerevar Indoril, Hai Resdaynia,_ _  
> _ _My Lord, Friend, and Companion’_

His homeland hasn’t heard the formal greeting of the first Children of Veloth in many centuries, but it seemed appropriate to Dagoth Ur to remind this impostor, this puppet of the human Emperor - his blind, unfortunate Nerevar - of the duty he once cherished and the past he had forsaken. Dagoth Ur signed the letter with his birth name on a whim - surely, if Nerevar remembered anything, he’d remember the name by which he called him as he fervently kissed his lips, and if he remembered nothing, all passionate and sincere declarations would fall on deaf ears.   

But Nerevar replied to him (the handwriting was unfamiliar, yet the style - laconic, heartfelt - was unmistakably his):

> _‘Voryn_ ,
> 
> _I’m writing you as I sit by the window of the Balmora Guild of Mages. For three nights I’ve tossed and turned on the bedding, sleepless and feverish, and I’ve through during those long hours of your gift. Dagoth Gares - I don’t recall him from before, but maybe my memory is feeble these days - told me that you offered me your friendship and council, but until now I knew little of who I was many years ago._
> 
> _Ranis doesn’t know how to help me and I fear I will be turned out soon. They say it’s corprus. To me it feels like fire in my veins, like poison of the worst kind, but as the world around me dims, it’s as if a veil lifts from my eyes and I begin to see what you see._
> 
> _The world we once knew has changed - all is foreign and befuddling to me but not altogether unwelcome. But I see that the Empire of men is strong and its Emperor is cunning, but cunningness and brutality didn’t save the last ruler of men who opposed us._
> 
> _The Ashlander woman, Nibani Maesa, tells me not to go to you, but my sweet Voryn, I promise you that I’ll come. However, it won’t befit me to meet with you like this. As you said, the path to the Red Mountain is long and filled with danger._
> 
> _As ever, your faithful friend,_
> 
> _Nerevar Indoril.’_

Nerevar, on Voryn’s memory, kept his word, and if he said he would come, an army between the citadel in the crater and Ghostgate wouldn’t stop him. Dagoth Ur didn’t know if Nerevar would return to betray him again or to accept his council, but there was no doubt in his mind that whichever form - man, woman or else - would stand before him one fateful day, the spirit of his lover would inhabit it.

“I have another task for you,” Dagoth Ur addressed the ash priest. “Take my answer to him.”

***

It was a bleak hour in Balmora, and the building which belonged to the famous Guild of Mages stood lifeless and sightless in predawn darkness. Not a flicker of light showed in its many windows, but the lone Hlaalu guard in bonemold armor who now and again circled the building with a torch heard strange sounds which seemed to originate in the basement.

A Dunmer man woke up covered in cold sweat, moaning and muttering nonsense to himself, to the sight of a dark shadow leaning over him, and the shadow was tangible and real unlike the many ghosts from his nightmares. It was an ash ghoul in a gray robe, with a protuberance instead of a face, but it didn’t hurry to attack him with deadly magic. It waited until the Dunmer rose from the secluded bed and collected himself, and wordlessly extended him the letter. After the Dunmer took it, the ash ghoul soundlessly vanished whence it came.

Nerevar - the Dunmer went by a different name, but as of late, it became insignificant as the spirit of the ancient hero grew stronger by the day - unhurriedly unrolled the message and read to himself:

> _‘Nerevar,_
> 
> _There isn’t a doubt in my mind that I am speaking to you. I had to be cautious in my previous letter, but now that I know it is you, I’m both relieved and thrown into confusion._
> 
> _You didn’t answer my summons and prevaricated when I asked you a question. It occurred to me that you don’t trust me yet. It’s a pity. Only when you come to me with an open heart, I’ll be able to help you master those gifts._
> 
> _If you dare to defy the gods, take my hand. If my memory serves me well, you took risks with little promise of reward unflinchingly._
> 
> _Do not fear me without reason. My embrace is gentler than it seems._
> 
> _Your ever loyal servant,  
>  Voryn Dagoth.'_

Nerevar helplessly shook his head. He knew that his Voryn loved writing long letters and that the message in his hands was strange and short, but he didn’t have a single clue about what had transpired in the final battle at the Red Mountain. (The Red Mountain bore scars of countless struggles even before his time - the untiring giant earned its name with the never-ending ash storms of the same color as blood). Voryn talked of bitter betrayals and of destiny, but his words meant nothing to Nerevar. Perhaps they did exchange blows and Voryn was felled by his faithful sword, or perhaps, everyone lied to him.

But if he did kill his lover many years ago, it was a futile act, for Voryn had survived the fatal wounds, and there was hardly anything more final in Nerevar’s opinion than death. It could only mean that death wasn’t the right answer.

And Voryn - his clever, conniving Voryn - perceived the true nature of his wiles.     

On that very night, as the dawn broke cloudless and serene and the first members of the Balmora Guild of Mages began to wake, the Dunmer with an unimportant name wrapped himself in a long brown cloak and vanished into the mist.

***

From Balmora to the Urshilaku campsite, Nerevar traveled on foot like an ordinary pilgrim, and with each passing day, the body of the Dunmer deteriorated further until, he was afraid, it wouldn't serve his needs. He barely slept, for the many ulcers ached and itched, tormenting him every waking hour. The people shunned him out of fear to catch corprus, recognizing the curse of the Blight upon him. Some showed him mercy, offering him coin and shelter, but Nerevar preferred to spend his nights on the road. The Sixth House servants follows him at his heels, awaiting his answer, but Nerevar avoided them to buy himself time. When he closed his eyes, he saw Kogoruhn in its former glory as if it was still real - recalcitrant towers, squat temples, bright, proud banners with proud mer arrayed underneath them - and profound anguish gripped his heart. Peakstar told him that they began in brilliance and honor, and that the cause of their fall was their loyal service to him. Nerevar’s memories were befogged, and he didn’t grasp the meaning of her words.

Nibani Maesa took a good look at him and sent him to Divayth Fyr at once, but Nerevar didn’t hurry to leave. Corprus was Dagoth Ur’s fury, his pain, his hatred which he fostered in his heart for thousands of years; it was a window into his soul, a bridge to cross, a guiding light to follow in the murk.

On the fifth day, Dagoth Ur lost patience and with it, he lost the waiting game. In the past, Voryn possessed an outstanding self-command, and often he would advise the former Hortator to act with reason, but Nerevar's instinct prompted him not to confuse his former Councilor with Dagoth Ur who was touched by divinity and madness.

Nerevar took a walk along the shoreline, barefoot, to feel the chilly currents of the sea against his rotting skin (though his body slowly yielded to disease, his spirit remained haughty and strong). When he stooped to look at his reflection in the lucid water, an ash poet appeared behind him. Nerevar guessed that he was being watched for quite some time.

“Lord Nerevar, he will not come to you,” the ash ghoul muttered under his breath. “Submit to him, for it is not too late for his mercy. Answer-”

“I know, I know. You wouldn’t tell me anything new, would you? I won’t ask him to come to me.” Nerevar leaned over to the ghoul, not minding the faint reek of death, and whispered something into his ear.

Later that evening an assassin snuck into the yurt where Nerevar was resting, but he heard its noisy tread in his uneasy sleep and plunged a dagger into the creature’s throat. 

“What are you? What is this place? Let me sleep...” It whispered and gasped out its life. 

***

“He didn’t say anything else?” Dagoth Ur’s voice resounded in the Heart Chamber like thunder.

“No, my lord, it was all he said. ‘I want you to see my world now.’ And then he killed Dagoth Velos, but it was a misunderstanding. We believed he refused the sweetness of your friendship and treated him like an enemy.”

“Such naivete!”

Dagoth Ur no longer paid the messenger any heed, casting an elaborate spell which was to a god as effortless as breathing. The stone walls disappeared, and he hovered above a figure resting against the bed in a shoddy Ald’ruhn inn. In his time, it was an unremarkable dusty town in the middle of nowhere, and the Emperor Crab was its only place of attraction. But their world irrevocably changed, and Ald’ruhn swelled like abscess on flesh after it was chosen to be the seat of House Redoran.

Nerevar looked tired, unguarded, and Dagoth Ur entered his dream as he would enter a house, unbidden. He showed him a vision in which Nerevar lay upon the table lit by many brilliant candles, and he was neither dead, nor alive. Dagoth Ur had an overwhelming power over him here. He approached the table, put a hand on Nerevar’s shoulder wrapped in a shroud, and the room began to fill up with guests. He smiled pleasantly at them and joked with them, and afterwards he invited them to take a seat round the table.

“Don’t resist me, Nerevar,” Dagoth Ur said gently. “Here’s Dagoth Gares. You thought you killed him, but it was a vain effort, for he is with me in the heart of my mysteries.”

Nerevar kept silent, and Dagoth Ur continued his speech and grew complacent. Belatedly he realized that imperceptibly to him the dream had changed: instead of the Dunmer whose body he wore like second skin, an ageless Chimer lay on the table; the room grew dim and quiet, and the guests left one by one. It was no longer his vision.

“What are you doing?” Dagoth Ur exclaimed, both angered and terrified by Nerevar’s sudden power.

Nerevar didn’t say a word as he rose from the table with visible effort. His pale face was twisted in a constrained grimace - half-smile, half-jeer - and beads of sweat covered his brow. Dagoth Ur took a few steps back, expecting him to draw his legendary sword and lunge at him, but Nerevar embraced him, swiftly, and pressed his lips to the cold metal of the golden mask. 

The room filled with blinding light, and Dagoth Ur sank to his knees in front of the Heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story contains an allusion to the Grand Inquisitor poem by Dostoyevsky from his novel "Brothers Karamazov":
> 
>  
> 
> _When the Inquisitor ceased speaking he waited some time for his Prisoner (Christ) to answer him. His silence weighed down upon him. He saw that the Prisoner had listened intently all the time, looking gently in his face and evidently not wishing to reply. The old man longed for him to say something, however bitter and terrible. But He suddenly approached the old man in silence and softly kissed him on his bloodless aged lips. That was all his answer._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to finish it before I post the next chapter of TFoF sometime in the near future :)  
> This drabble sheds the light on the back story of my two beloved original characters from TFoF, Belwin and Cardea.

**The Little Finger.**

Firstly, Belwin hears a voice. It isn’t a loud, commanding, memorable voice; it’s low and quiet but not altogether unpleasant, and Belwin lifts her head in apprehension. She didn’t expect a mistress. In her eighteen and a half years of miserable life, she’s only known one master and he was cruel, wasteful and dim-witted, but she learned what to expect from a master and how to please him. Mistresses were capricious – kind one day and merciless on the next – and they hated Belwin for her cursed beauty because their sons, husbands or brothers lusted after her. It was her former master’s wife who gave her that awful burn and forced him to sell her to a slave trader.  

“Are these… wretched half-wits my news slaves? Couldn’t you find anyone more spirited, Ra’Zirr? They won’t last a day,” the mistress says. She’s aloof and tired, and – Belwin notices with malicious joy – she looks utterly ridiculous in a dark-mauve oversized robe, resembling a gaunt cliff-racer with extravagant feathering if such a laughable thing were to ever exist. She is tall, pale and thin, and her deep-black glossy hair is cut short, revealing her dainty ears which are neither pointy enough nor long enough to be elvish.

‘A half-breed,’ Belwin sneers. ‘A pole. A laughable cliff-racer.’ She tries to draw comfort from these bitter words, but the relief is fleeting, and the dread of imminent doom which she cannot escape weighs heavily upon her heart.

Ra’Zirr – a large Khajiit of unremarkable appearance – proudly thrusts out his chest. “You get what you pay for, Magister Fyr. This one found you the best bargain, and no one would have fared better. This fine Bosmer here,” Belwin flinches, but the Khajiit overseer walks past her without a glance, “tried to escape his former master. Twice, this one swears. His master decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. He may be missing an arm, but he’s quite spirited. Aye, very spirited.”

“I suppose you’re right, this rabble will do.”   

The mistress walks past her, and the hem of her expensive robe brushes against Belwin’s cheek. Belwin does not look up, retreating into herself, though the mistress has no reason to beat her. Her rags stink, her hair is dirty and disheveled, and she does not resemble the beauty who became the object of envy of other slaves, servants and even the mistress of the house.  

The mistress begins drawing an intricate figure on the floor, painstakingly tracing out fanciful shapes and letters. Belwin can’t read, but she can sense magic with every fiber of her being. The figure is doubtlessly an important part of some magical ritual. The circular room is otherwise empty, lit only by four blue magelights which are placed equidistantly from one another. The ceiling is domelike and immense; thick branches of a mushroom tree intertwine in semidarkness, forming patterns no less queer than those drawn on the floor in red and white chalk.  

Belwin’s former mistress dabbled in magic. When she found Belwin in her husband’s bed, she set the sleeve of her long winter gown afire – an illusory mercy. If she had the skill, she would burn Belwin alive on the spot. Belwin sensed her struggles with a simple destruction spell just as she sensed the power swelling up in the obscure figure on the floor, but in comparison with it, the vain attempts of her former mistress appeared childish. Belwin feels a tingle deep within her very being, akin to a sensation of mounting pleasure. She wriggles in the ropes with which her arms are tied and looks round the room, but the other slaves don’t notice anything. They sit on the floor, silent, dejected, and indifferent to all save for the crack of the overseer’s whip.

The mistress finishes the figure and beckons Ra’Zirr. The overseer habitually grabs one of the slaves by the lapel of a dirty, torn shirt – the 'spirited Bosmer escapee', it seems – and drags him towards the figure. The slave does not resist. When the overseer lets go of him, he falls on the floor like a sack of saltrice. The Argonian woman with a marked limp shrieks something in her native language, but Ra’Zirr silences her with a casual wave of an arm. The Argonian gags and writhes on the floor, clawing at her lips, but the illusion spell cannot be undone by such mundane means.

“Ra’Zirr, tie her up, or give her a sound thrashing,” the mistress sounds displeased. “Don’t let her ruin my magical figure.”

The mistress’s threats and Ra’Zirr’s command of illusion magic stifle all seeds of rebellion in the slaves, and they obey Ra’Zirr unquestioningly as he places them in the corners of the magical figure. There are five of them altogether, including Belwin, but none is as clever and observant as her. By the time the overseer tells her to stand in the center of the figure by the mistress’s side, Belwin knows that none of these wretches will leave the room alive. The Bosmer is missing an arm, the Argonian can barely walk on her own, the face of a human girl is mutilated beyond recognition – they are ‘damaged goods’, as slave traders say. Healthy, strong slaves are in high demand and fetch a good price, but sometimes the owner wishes to get rid of weak or crippled slaves, and the slave trader begrudgingly accepts the deal. Belwin’s former master didn’t want to kill her, but she was unfit for house work with a scarred left arm unless some merciful soul patched her up a bit. Magister Fyr doesn’t strike Belwin as a merciful and generous soul. She bought unwanted slaves for a cheap price to sacrifice them in a magical ritual to obtain some forbidden power. Every slave is made aware of this terrible practice to ensure he obeys his ‘kinder’ master.

When the awful truth dawns on Belwin, she remains silent and doesn’t otherwise show that she guessed what fate awaited her.

In the meanwhile, the mistress talks with Ra’Zirr in low tones, and Belwin uses her excellent hearing to hearken to their conversation. She didn’t become a favorite toy to her former master by exercising passive acceptance. She listened, schemed, and waited patiently, using her beauty as a weapon no less destructive than a sharp blade. She latches onto every spoken word with desperation of the doomed, hoping against hope that those words contain her miraculous salvation.

“Ra’Zirr, we’re out of time.” The mistress bites her bloodless lips. “I have to try something I haven’t tried before. I know the risks. But where would I be if I didn’t know how to take risks? Lord Nerevar called for a vote… It’s happening, don’t you understand? It’s happening at last!”

“This one didn’t know-”

“Well, now ‘this one’ knows. We can’t fail our benefactor. I have to win this upcoming duel… The accursed, wondrous, beautiful Daedric Crescent – oh, how I long to get my hands on it! I must get my hands on it! How can I win without it? All my amulets are powerless if I’m paralyzed. I didn’t sleep for many a night, racking my brains for an answer, but my only chance against that incompetent lecher who proclaimed himself the Archmagister of the proud House Telvanni,” the mistress takes a deep breath, “is to strike him down with another Crescent. He will be astonished, I’m certain of it, to see me wielding it. That fool convinced himself that there is only one such blade in existence!”

“Send this one to steal it, mistress. By Jone and Jode, this one begs you, don’t enter Oblivion alone!”

“You dare invoke your useless gods, Ra’Zirr… I don’t doubt your abilities and your loyalty to me, but I can’t let you interfere. That coward won’t fight me without his miraculous weapon. He will hide and prevaricate and waste our time. We can’t waste time when the vote is nigh upon us!”

 The mistress is greatly agitated when she returns to the magical figure. Her countenance is deathly pale, and her dark eyes flash fire. She lifts her arms, and the sudden surge of power that accompanies the gesture knocks Belwin off her feet. She huddles on the floor as if before a beating, but the spectacular opening of an Oblivion gate causes her to forget her miseries and lift her head in profound astonishment. Of course, Belwin doesn’t know that it is a gate into the realm of Oblivion. She knows nothing about Aurbis and its many realms or the wicked Daedra that inhabit them. But the less one knows, the more impressive and awe-inspiring the gates seem to him, leading into fiery chasms or ice-cold seas of azure, or dark, dank caverns. The slaves begin to writhe in pain and thrash about their invisible magical cages. The brighter the flame burns in the chink of the Oblivion gate, the faster they are losing lifeblood till they'll be sucked dry like mummified corpses in family crypts. Belwin should be terrified by the sight, but the bright-red flame in the thin black frame of the gate mesmerizes her and she can’t look away.

All of a sudden a small creature leaps out of the gate. It’s fast, but the large Khajiit overseer is even faster; he adroitly unsheathes his ebony axe, crushes the creature’s skull and tosses its tiny body towards the wall so that it doesn’t bleed on the magical figure.

“Don’t worry, mistress, it’s only a baby clannfear”.

“You know what to do, Ra’Zirr, we’ll harvest the claws later,” the mistress says, smiling. A smile on those strange pale features of hers looks uncanny. “And you… you’re going with me.”

The last words are meant for Belwin, but she doesn’t hear them, staring into the alluring depths of the Deadlands. It is not until the mistress’s thin hand firmly claps her forearm that Belwin comes to herself.

“I… don’t… wanna… go… anywhere,” she pronounces each word separately and distinctly.

The mistress is unexpectedly strong. She pushes Belwin towards the gate, and Belwin who is exhausted and hungry, stumbles over the threshold and awkwardly falls into the chasm. She tries to scream, but she can’t hear anything and there is a brief burning sensation in her chest as if she breathes in a lungful of hot smoke. She finds herself prostrate on the cold stones of a small square overgrown with dry thorny vines and plants that emit noxious fumes. In front of her towers a black fortress, oppressing in its enormity, with a bright yellow light at the spire, and behind her a volcanic river carries its perilous waters deep into the inhospitable wilderness. The square is surrounded by a flimsy stone fence and before the entrance to the fortress stands a terrifying being the likes of which Belwin has never seen. He wears heavy armor, his face resembles a mer’s in that it has a nose, two eyes, lips and ears, but his skin is the color of a smoldering coal and his eyes are tiny flaming slits. His head is overgrown with small bony horns and his hair is white as mountain snow. In his hands he holds a large rusty cage with a mutilated corpse in it.

 Belwin shrieks again, and this time she hears a shrill, foreign sound, echoing in the cheerless vast until the mistress’s pointed shoe painfully cuts into her ribs.

“Be grateful I chose you as the anchor,” the mistress hisses. “You might survive this ordeal, but if you continue shrieking like you’re soul-sick, I’ll whip you bloody.”

“And what of the others?”

“Worthless.”

Belwin decides it’s unwise to question her mistress’s choices. The mistress cuts the rope that ties her arms with a small dagger and she rises to her feet, vigorously rubbing her numb wrist.

“You, churl!” The mistress turns towards the strange creature. “Do you have the artifact I requested from your master?”

He utters a deep, throaty laugh. “You dare mention my master, nikyn! He won’t waste his time on the likes of you, but he does you an honor you don’t deserve by sending me to greet you. I’m a member of his personal guard, the Valkyn. No one stands higher in his service.”

 “What an honor indeed, to be greeted by a dremora of such renown! Where is the Crescent?”

“Be careful, mortal, what you wish for,” the creature – a dremora – lifts the cage and swings it from left to right. “This slave wanted a Crescent, too, but the pursuit cost him his life. Only the worthiest of worthy will be given my master’s precious weapon!”

“Then your master didn’t tell you that there’s a man on Tamriel who’s a worthless coward and he has one of the Crescents in his possession. I beseeched your master with a fair request to grant me the blade so that I can end the fool’s life and return both blades to the Deadlands. After all, there is no blade in all Aurbis that rivals the Crescent’s power and on my own I have no hope of victory.”

“Such impertinence from a bloodsack! What do we care about the affairs of mortals? You live, you die, but we persist.”

“Your master seemed quite eager to ensure the fool’s demise. His cowardice reflects poorly on your master’s reputation.”

“If my master told you this, it was merely a whim of his. He changed his mind. The bloodsack’s own foolishness will be a surer demise than any.”

“I’m not leaving without the Crescent,” the mistress whispers to Belwin. “I can sense it. After all my labors and sacrifice, it’s so close!”

Belwin nods sheepishly; her mistress’s words are beyond her understanding, but it’s always wise to nod in agreement when a mistress is agitated.

“You’re the anchor,” the mistress goes on. “I’ve foreseen this outcome, but I can’t hold the Oblivion gate open and fight a Dremora Valkynaz – oh the vanity of Mehrunes Dagon! So I cast a spell on you, foolish girl. I gave you such power! The gate will disappear on its own when all the slaves are dead, but until then you can close it at any moment. There’s a word, but I won’t tell it to you so that you won’t meddle in my plans. Do you understand, slave?”

“My name’s Belwin.”

The mistress takes an amulet out of the bottomless pocket of her ridiculous robe and hangs it around Belwin’s neck. “However you wish, Belwin. I give you the amulet of invisibility. Use it with care. The Valkynaz in his arrogance won’t pay any heed to a ‘slave of a slave’. When I challenge him to a mortal combat, you snoop around for a bit, find the Crescent and steal it. It’s here somewhere, I sense it. Find it, do you understand me?”

“What if I can’t find it, mistress?”

“Then we both die here. I’m better off dead if I can’t get it. You can’t imagine the importance of that magnificent blade!”

Who was this mistress? Why did she entrust her life to a lowly slave like Belwin? Who were these ‘Valkynaz’ and their mysterious master? Countless confusing questions swarm in Belwin’s head, but she cannot catch at one, she cannot rest on any one of them and answers elude her. Which question is more important than others? Belwin nods again with helpless desperation and clutches the amulet in her healthy palm. She will survive and she’ll get all the answers afterwards.

The mistress pushes her aside and throws a ball of brilliant lighting at the dremora. The dremora draws a plain-looking sword that doesn’t resemble the famed Crescent her mistress so desperately needs, and Belwin looks away from the battle.  Her mistress’s power is overwhelming and she won’t be of any help to her in a clash of magic and blade.

Belwin steps over a thick, thorny vine the color of dried blood and collects herself. For as long as she remembers, she had an acute sense for all things magical. She knew where her former master’s wife practiced magic (in the basement, to her master’s discontent), she knew how many enchanted amulets her master kept in his most prized chest, and now she senses the power emanating from her mistress like hot noonday sun. Belwin is tempted to close her eyes and bask in it or watch her mistress gracefully levitate in the air, exchanging fireballs with the enemy dremora, but her wishes are trifling and her mistress’s orders are absolute. The dremora is powerful, too, but his power is grisly and distinctly different from her mistress’s. There’s a faint warmth around her neck in the amulet her mistress gave her and then there is something else: cold, dark but not frightening. It reminds Belwin of an icy mountain rill. She shuts her eyes and covers her ears so as not to hear anything but its song – it is calling to her and she walks towards it with an uncertain smile playing on her lips. For the first time in many years, she feels truly useful to someone who doesn’t need her as a toy or a sack for beating. She knows little about her mistress and, though she left the other slaves to die and threatened to beat Belwin senseless, she has shown Belwin genuine kindness. She recognized Belwin’s talent. Belwin doesn’t feel tears streaming down her face; she walks alone in the dark, unhearing, unseeing, and her hearts beats like mad in her chest. ‘Is it happiness I feel?’ she wonders. ‘Isn’t _this_ the most important questions of all?’    

When Belwin opens her eyes, she sees the green glimmer of the Crescent. It is fastened to a corpse in the cage which was abandoned on the ground at the beginning of the battle. The lock on the cage is rusty, but her hands are small enough to slip through the bars. She tugs at the hilt of the strange sword, trying not to look at the rotting corpse, but it’s too heavy and she can’t lift it by herself. Belwin wants to call for her mistress, but the battle rages on and she can’t distract her. ‘I found it,’ she wants to scream.

When Belwin hears a loud shriek, she covers her mouth with a hand, scolding herself for poor restraint, but to her utter terror, it’s heard from the square. Belwin looks away from the cage and sees her mistress lying motionless on the ground; she is cocooned in the same greenish light that the Crescent gives off and her eyes and mouth are opened wide, but she is no longer shrieking, and the sight frightens Belwin more than her bloodcurdling cries.  

The dremora is badly wounded. His armor is singed, he drags his disobedient left leg after him as he walks, and he keeps his gauntlet pressed to his right side whence dark blood slowly drips on the stones. In the other hand he wields one of the Crescents. No matter how slowly he drags himself across the square, soon he will reach Belwin's mistress who helplessly and fearfully watches him. ‘Why won’t she fight? Why won’t she say anything? Why won’t she give me the secret word to close this gate for good?’ Belwin thinks, wringing her hands in despair. Her mistress’s shoulder is bleeding, but to Belwin’s knowledge, mer don’t die from a small scratch. She’s seen slaves recovering after fifty lashes, after their backs looked like they’ve been mangled by wolves, with chunks of flesh hanging loose, and they weren’t a match for her skilled and powerful mistress.   

Belwin bites her healthy palm. She can let her mistress die a gruesome death which she doubtlessly deserves, but the dremora will find and kill her, too. ‘You’re the anchor,’ the mistress’s words echo in her ears. Belwin can save the both of them if she closes the damned Oblivion gate, but she doesn’t know magic: the figure, the incantations – all of it is too complicated for her. ‘You’re the anchor,’ insists the memory of her mistress. If Belwin ceases to exist, so will the gate, but she doesn’t wish to die. ‘If only I could die for a moment!’ she thinks frantically. ‘Do I even have to die? What if I can disappear for a little bit and then reappear?’

Belwin can’t be sure of anything, but when the dremora grunts, lifting the Crescent blade above her mistress’s unmoving body, she firmly grips the hilt of its twin with her healthy hand. Her left arm is badly injured. She can barely move it and no one properly treated the burn. Her little finger is shriveled and even with the intervention of a powerful healer, she won’t use it again. But it is still a part of her, however small and ugly, and her body won’t take kindly to parting with it. The thought nauseates Belwin, but it also gladdens her heart to know that she will be rid of it. She presses the little finger to the cold blade and before the numbness overtakes her, she cuts it off.

The world goes dark.

Belwin wakes up, feeling the weight of something enormous on top of her, and she can’t move for a while – later her mistress explains to her that the Crescent sword is enchanted with a powerful paralysis spell – but the accursed Oblivion gate vanished. Her mistress is smiling in spite of her own injuries, and it is the brightest, kindest smile Belwin has ever seen. Her left hand aches dully, but the feeling of pain is all too familiar to her while the feeling of overwhelming joy is frightening. Belwin weeps again, unreservedly, but Ra’Zirr who takes the Crescent blade she is pressing to her chest and the mistress don't seem to notice anything.

“Cardea,” the mistress says softly as she kneels to heal Belwin's hand, “my name is Cardea.”

It is the sweetest voice in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _nikyn_ \- I use the Dremora language from Oblivion game. I imagine it means something like "of no family/clan", "no one", "nameless", etc.
> 
> Belwin's favorite school of magic - you can guess haha - is mysticism. She was born with the ability to case 'detect magic' spell cause her birth sign is "The Tower". The implications of it :)


End file.
